


Pharmacon

by killaidanturner



Series: Rumination [1]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, young!anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5618032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killaidanturner/pseuds/killaidanturner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The line between poison and medicine is subtle; the Greeks used the word ‘pharmacon’ for both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pharmacon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nasri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasri/gifts).



> this starts out when Anders is 21. I def wrote them both very different, I had a little fun with it since its an AU. hope I didn't budge it up too bad.

“I don’t like the sight of blood.” Anders hands are shaking, his skin clammy. He lets out a ragged breath as his eyes avoid Mike’s.

 

“Funny you say that considering your nose was bleeding the other night.” Mike clenches his fist, his knuckles raw and bleeding from punching the wall earlier.

 

_Busted capillaries, a side effect of cocaine._

 

“Don’t start.” Anders glances up at Mike through his eyelashes, his jaw tightening.

 

“I can’t have you around Ty and Axl, not when you’re like this. They don’t deserve to see you destroying yourself.”

 

Anders thinks he hates the word deserve. He wants to lash out and scream that he never deserved any of this. That he didn’t deserve his twenty-first birthday, that he didn’t deserve for Bragi to happen to him, didn’t deserve his shitty childhood. That he sure as hell didn’t deserve Mikkel as a stand in father.

 

“Then maybe I just won't be around.” He’s too tired to put up a fight, and when he sees Ty with Axl in the hallway, eyes filled with worry watching their conversation, he knows what he has to do. He thinks it might just kill him in the process.

 

* * *

 

Anders deals in barters, exchanges, and favors.

 

“I’m not interested in cash this time.” Anders rolls his eyes at his dealer.

 

“I’m not blowing you.”

 

“Yeah? Well maybe I want something else.” His dealer moves closer to him, his eyes predatory. Sandy hair, tanned skin, and green eyes. He’s not bad looking, it’s just Anders never really thought of him in that way.

 

“If you fuck me, I want double what I usually get and a bottle of morphine tabs and a line to start off.” Anders thinks he at least should get something more out of it.

 

“Deal.”

 

When his face is pressed down in the mattress all he focuses on is the numbness in his mouth, cocaine spread across his gums. His eyes are dilated and not from lust. He twitches his nose and takes in a deep breath, a side effect from snorting a line moments before.

 

He tries not to focus of the stretch between his thighs, the burn that accompanies it. Instead he thinks about the rest of his night after this, how he will go out to his familiar territory of bars and easy women. He thinks to himself that he will wash away the feel of stubble against his shoulder blades with soft skin and delicate hands. It brings a small smile to his lips when he thinks that he will let himself drown in it, in soft gasps and falling skirts.

 

* * *

 

Later that night he takes home two women to his college dorm. He lays on the bed letting himself be wrapped up in the sheets like waves, letting himself float out to sea to be lost to the sirens call of white powder and tight heat.

 

* * *

 

He changes dealers after that night. The thought of seeing green eyes again makes his stomach churn. He chalks it up to a bad batch, that it made his crash this time around that much harder. That when he is laying on his bed, his body shaking it is because of the drugs and not because of rough hands pulling down his jeans.

 

* * *

 

When he graduates he does enough blow to stop a heart.

 

He’s standing in the bathroom of some shitty fucking nightclub that he didn’t have a lot of interest in going to, other than he had heard there was a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ sort of policy in regards to doing drugs there.

 

He stands in the bathroom with his hands clutching the porcelain sink. The bathroom is dark, the floor made out of black tile littered with silver flecks. The lighting is blue and makes Anders feel dizzier than he actually is.

 

He turns on the water to the faucet with haste, his body becoming too hot. He splashes cold water onto his face as he tries to focus on his breathing. He clutches at his shirt, at the pain in his chest, how it spreads to his arms, up his neck and to the back of his brain.

 

He opens up his mouth to try to breathe that way, hoping that it will let more oxygen into his body. He closes his eyes as he leans against the cool tile of the wall. He can’t hear the sound of footsteps over the beat of the music drumming from the dance floor.

 

* * *

 

Mitchell could hear a fast heart beat even over the DJ, even over the hundreds of bodies pressed against each other. It was normal to hear a pulse, normal to hear it when there were so many people on an ecstasy high. This was different though, this was the heartbeat of someone going into respiratory failure. Mitchell would know, he had heard it before.

 

He pushes his way through the crowd, gently tries to push away a young girl in neon tights clinging to his black shirt. He makes his way off the dance floor, away from sweaty skin and bright colors. He follows the sound to the bathroom.

 

When he walks in he sees a young man, not too into his twenties. His hair is drenched with sweat, clinging to his forehead. Mitchell can’t tell it’s exact shade in the neon blue glow but he guesses it's a shade of blonde. The man is clinging to his shirt, pulling at it, scratching at his chest as he heaves for air.

 

“Are you alright?” Mitchell asks but he already knows the answer. The person in front of him is about to overdose.

 

His heart is beating erratically fast and if it wasn’t for that, Mitchell would swear that they were similar for how wide this man’s pupils were blown, he couldn’t tell the irises of his eyes but Mitchell got the feeling that there might be something about them.

 

Mitchell leans down in front of the man who kicks his feet up and tries to scoot back, his body having nowhere to go as his head hits the tiled wall. He was used to people running from him, but not like this. There was no black in his eyes, no blood on his mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

The other man’s lips are trembling as his eyes close.

 

“Ok, let's get you up, yeah?” Mitchell pulls the man to him. He puts up his arms, clenching his hands into fists and he lightly hits Mitchell’s chest in protest. “If you don’t listen to me, you’re going to die in the bathroom of this shit club. Do you want that to happen?” Mitchell tightens his grip on the man’s wrist in order to get more of his attention. He tries not to pay attention to how the blood in his veins feels.

 

The man shakes his head _no_ and Mitchell guides him to a stall. He places him on his knees in front of the toilet. “You need to throw up, you have to try to get some of that shit out of your system. Can you do that?”

 

The man shakes his head _no_ again and places his cheek on the cold seat of the toilet. “Cold.” It’s the only thing that the man has said since Mitchell entered the restroom. Mitchell tries not to pay attention to his soft voice, his rounded vowel on the ‘O’.

 

Mitchell groans as he lifts the man’s head up. He moves to stand behind him, his legs on either side of the smaller frame. He uses one hand to hold up the man’s head. “Ok, I’m going to make you throw up and you’re just going to have to thank me when you’re not dead tomorrow. Try not to flinch, it won't be good for you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

He takes two of his fingers, index and middle, and opens up the man’s mouth, he slowly glides them in until they’re touching the back of his throat. The man underneath him gags, his body sending small shakes as he starts dry heaving. Mitchell pushes his fingers a little further back until he feels the slick wetness of the man's throat and he pulls back. Mitchell stands against the wall of the bathroom stall as the man clings onto the toilet, bile rising from his body. He coughs and spits, vomiting into the porcelain. Mitchell winces at the noises.

 

When the man seems to be done vomiting Mitchell leans down again. He props the man up and looks into his eyes. He still can’t tell their true color, not in this light but Mitchell still feels drawn to them. He grabs a handful of tissue paper and wipes at the side of the man’s mouth. His touch is gentle and his voice quiet. “You bit your lip, you got a bit of blood on your mouth.” Mitchell wipes away the blood, throwing the tissue paper into the toilet then flushing the handle. He sits down on the floor, opposite the smaller man. His eyes are closed and his head resting on the stall. Their legs are entangled around each other, compressed in the small space.

 

“I should take you home.” Mitchell says as he nudges the man with his knee.

 

“Don’t have a home.” The man mutters and Mitchell strangely knows how that feels.

 

“Where you live then, I should take you where you live.” Michell corrects and the man nods ‘ _yes’_.

 

* * *

 

It’s a small flat, which should be expected. It’s nicer than Mitchell’s though, and Mitchell starts to wonder how someone so much younger than him already has such a decent place.

 

“You should really tell me your name or I’m just going to call you kid.” Mitchell says as he helps Anders lay down on the couch.

 

“Don’t you fucking dare, you aren’t even that much older than me.”

 

“You’d be surprised.” Mitchell mumbles.

 

“Anders.” The man says and he rolls over onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

 

“Anders.” Mitchell repeats, letting it roll off of his tongue. “Anders.” He says it like it’s sticky, as if it causes his tongue to get caught on the roof of his mouth.

 

It awakens Bragi, enough so that Anders opens his eyes to look at the man in front of him. His eyes are hazy and out of focus, all he sees is dark clothes and dark hair. He closes his eyes again, “yeah what the fuck is your name?”

 

“Mitchell. You should be a little bit nicer to someone who just saved your life.”

 

“Didn’t ask you to.” Anders is slurring his words and Mitchell wants to ask him more, Mitchell wants to know more.

 

He’s battling himself as he looks at the body on the couch in front of him. the small lithe frame, blonde hair in disarray. The creature inside of him is screaming, calling for blood. It would be so easy to take this body before him, to taste the blood and the cocktail of drugs laced in it.

 

He sits down in the chair across from the couch, his feet tapping on the carpet.

 

Easy, he repeats the word in his head, to take this already slipping life.

 

Anders reaches out, his overly hot hands searching in the dark. They find Mitchell’s knee, then move up to Mitchell’s hand where his fingers are drumming a beat against his skin. Anders fingers rest on top of Mitchell’s knuckles, where his gloves don’t cover. He repeats a word from earlier that night, “cold.”

 

All of a sudden Mitchell has his mind made up. He stays like that, sitting in the chair with Anders’ hand resting on top of his.

 

* * *

 

Anders wakes up hours later, to black birds flying past his window and sunlight streaming in. Mitchell’s head is resting against the back of the chair, his throat exposed. Anders takes in the expanse of it, his adam’s apple, stubble growing in along his jaw. He immediately moves his hand away from Mitchell’s which seems to be enough to wake the man up.

 

Anders is sitting on the edge of the couch, his eyes focused on Mitchell. He takes in his overly tight black shirt, the deep V of it and how Mitchell’s dark chest hair is escaping it. He looks at the half gloves on Mitchell’s hands, tight black jeans that cling to his frame and show of his thighs.

 

Mitchell looks at Anders and takes him all in, takes in the blue of his irises that he can now see in the light of day. The curve of his jaw, his thin pink lips.

 

His throat is dry and heavy when he tries to open his mouth to say something he can’t find the words. Mitchell is up in an instant and rushing to the kitchen. Anders hears him run the tap and come back a moment later with a glass of water. He hands it to Anders who takes it gratefully, or as much as he can. Which means his eyes never leave Mitchell’s.

 

He finishes the glass and sets it down on the small table in front of the couch. “You didn’t have to stay.” Anders croaks out the words.

 

“Kind of did, you might have died otherwise.”

 

Anders shrugs and leans back into the couch cushions. “What are you, a doctor?”

 

“No but I’ve worked in a hospital before.”

 

Anders looks up at Mitchell again, this time with narrowed eyes. “Dress pretty shitty for someone who has been in the medical field.”

 

“Are you like this to everyone?” Mitchell asks, his frame looming over the couch.

 

“Nah, you’re special. I’m actually being nice to you.” Anders says it with a smirk and Mitchell doesn’t know how much of the drugs are still left in his system.

 

“Right, well. I should be off, have a shift to cover. Try not to kill yourself, yeah?” Mitchell grabs his coat, a tattered black leather jacket from the back of the sofa. He leaves the flat, door slamming against the frame on his way out. He tries not to think about Anders, about the kid with storm cloud eyes and a sharp tongue.

 

* * *

 

Anders spends the next few days in his apartment, wrapped in his sheets trying to sweat out the remainder of what was in his system. He doesn’t eat and at night the darkness and shadows play tricks on his mind.

 

He watches TV, movies, listens to music. He does whatever he can to not think of Mitchell. To think of the man from the club and his soothing touch.

 

* * *

 

When he feels well enough he goes for take out, a few blocks down at a little Indian joint that seats about fifteen people. He walks in jeans that are too big for his thinning waist, his hair disheveled from days of laying in his bed. He squints his eyes as he stares at the florescent lit sign of the menu.

 

“I prefer the butter chicken, it’s a classic but a fail safe, can never go wrong with it.” It’s not often that one hears Irish accents in New Zealand. Anders spins around to see Mitchell staring up at the menu board.

 

“Are you following me?” Anders ask.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself kid, I live a few blocks over. Found this place a few weeks back.” Mitchell looks down at Anders and takes in the sight of him. He looks better than when Mitchell found him but still not well.

 

Anders rolls his eyes and turns back to face the counter, ready to place his order. “How come I’ve never seen you before then?”

 

“Just moved here about two months ago.”

 

“Why?”

 

“New adventures.” He can hear the smile in Mitchell’s voice and part of him wants to turn around to see it and the other part is trying not hate every syllable in this conversation.

 

After they’ve ordered their food and they’re waiting on it to be prepared Anders speaks again. “Why don’t you come over, I never thanked you for the other night.”

 

“Didn’t think you were going to.” Mitchell says and his smile is forced.

 

“Are you going to come over or not?”

 

“Only if I can pick the movie.”

 

* * *

 

Anders concedes to an old black and white film. “I never actually agreed to you picking the movie.”

 

“And yet, here we are.” Mitchell turns on the sofa to grin at Anders and Anders tries not to let his breath catch. He looks away and focuses on the static of the screen as he waits for the movie to play.

 

“What the fuck is this again?”

 

“Casablanca.” Mitchell opens up his take out container and starts pushing the food around.

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

“How have you never heard of ‘Casablanca’?”

 

“Because I have more interesting things to do with my time.” Anders says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

 

* * *

 

When they get to the end of the film Mitchell is engrossed in it, his eyes following every line of dialogue. Anders wants to gag. He’s tempted to pick up the remote and abruptly turn the TV off until he sees Mitchell mouthing the dialogue and he can’t bring himself to do it.

 

* * *

 

“When will I see you again?” Mitchell asks leaning against the door frame, a smirk on his face.

 

“Never.” Anders says seriously but Mitchell never pauses, he just smiles wider and asks again.

 

“When will I see you again?”

 

“Next Friday, 9pm, don’t be late or I’ll leave without you.” Anders pushes Mitchell out the door and tries to ignore the strings being pulled in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Anders for a moment thinks about sobriety, that it is something he can manage. Three days after running into Mitchell again he feels the most sober he has in months. Bragi is in full force in his mind, rattling around and setting things off frequency. He brings up memories, holds onto Anders childhood. It’s enough to push Anders over the edge.

 

He cuts up a line, cuts in half from his normal dose. When he inhales it up his nose the satisfaction is almost immediate. His mind quiets to a hum, to a soft murmur. When he feels the silence spread through him he thinks it would be rather hard to give all of this up.

 

* * *

 

Friday rolls around and Anders hasn’t slept in two days. His nerves are on edge and his blood singing with chemicals.

 

He thinks that if he gets himself lost in the drugs enough that Bragi won't be able to find him, won't be able to whisper words to him or tell him stories.

 

There are days where he doesn’t know if the things he wants are because of Bragi or because he truly _wants._

 

And he wants Mitchell to be a thing that he wants, and not something that Bragi is trying to cling onto. That thought is enough alone to cause Anders to do a second line before nine p.m.

 

* * *

 

The knock comes on his door five minutes after nine. Anders answers to find Mitchell in a grey tank and a button up denim shirt that barely fits around his arms.

 

“Do you really have to wear the gloves?”

 

Mitchell lets out a huff of air while taking off the gloves and shoving them into his back pocket. “Happy?”

 

“No but that’s at least better.” Anders shuts the door behind them. He tries not to notice Mitchell standing close, his solid frame or how his arm brushes against his when they walk down the stairs together.

 

* * *

 

They agree on a pub and Anders lets Mitchell do all the talking. He focuses on his dark curls, how they frame his face. How when Mitchell gets really into a story sometimes the strands fall into his eyes and Mitchell has to push his hair back. He takes in the silver rings on his slender fingers, dark hair on his knuckles. He makes a mental note of Mitchell’s teeth, how the front two are a little crooked. Not enough to be too noticeable but enough to bring more to his characteristics. He takes in the curve of his eyebrows, thick and arched. The thin bridge of his nose and the slight curve at the bottom of it. While Mitchell talks he memorizes his features and the way that his eyes close shut when he laughs too hard or too loudly.

 

“I’ve been talking about myself for ages, you should tell me something about you.” Mitchell says with a smile.

 

“Isn’t much to tell.” Anders says before taking a sip of his beer.

 

“Oh come on, there has to be something.” The way Mitchell talks seems easy, like he doesn’t have to think about what he is saying.

 

Anders knows that well, he thinks about their similarities but how differently they use this talent.

 

“I don’t really talk about myself, I’m better at having other people talk. When I talk it tends to get me into trouble, not that I really mind but I just don’t really think before I speak.”

 

Mitchell laughs and slaps a hand down on his knee. “Oh trust me, I’ve noticed that.”

 

“Prick.” Anders says and finishes the rest of his beer.

 

* * *

 

Mitchell doesn’t kiss him goodbye that night and Anders is wondering if he didn’t make it evident enough that that’s what he wanted. He thinks he should have laid on more charm, should have used Bragi or done something different at least.

 

He spends his night with his hand wrapped around his cock pretending it belongs to colder hands.

 

* * *

 

Over a week goes by before he speaks to Mitchell again. His phone rings one day and he rushes to the living room to answer it.

 

“Hello?” Anders asks a little out of breath.

 

“What are you doing tonight?”

 

“Nothing.” It tumbles from his lips before he has a chance to play evasive.

 

“Brilliant, I’ll pick you up after eight.” The line goes dead before he has a chance to protest.

 

* * *

 

Anders looks at himself in the mirror, his manicured hair and crisp blue shirt. Immediately he can’t stand the sight of himself, can’t stand the implications of anything that he is feeling. He just wants all of his thoughts to shut down. He doesn’t want to want Mitchell, he doesn’t want Bragi, he doesn’t want anything. He just wants the ache in his chest to go away, wants the echo of Mitchell’s cadence to stop leaving imprints. He doesn’t want it to be something tangible. He doesn’t want to want him, not in a way that is anything more than Mitchell fucking him hard enough to forget both their names.

 

He laces a line with ecstasy and morphine.  

 

By the time Mitchell shows up Anders is holding it together as much as he can. He focuses too much on Mitchell’s words, trying to hard to make out what he is saying. His mind is pulling, trying to slip out of consciousness.

 

It’s after they leave a pub that Mitchell asks him, “how high are you right now?”

 

“Oh I’m fucking lit.” Anders replies with a smirk.

 

“You’re still doing all of that even after what happened?” Mitchell’s voice takes on a sharper edge.

 

“Of course I am.” Anders stumbles off the sidewalk and Mitchell grabs his hand. Anders immediately yanks it away.

 

“I’m just trying to help you back onto the fucking sidewalk, you don’t have to look at it as anything more than that.”

 

“I’m fine, I can do it.” Anders gets back onto the cement, his hands shoved into his pockets.

 

“You just buggered up the whole fucking night, you know that right?” Mitchell says annoyed as he turns to walk away.

 

“Me? You can’t be that offended that I had a bit of blow before I came out.”

 

Mitchell spins around to face Anders. “I don’t want to kiss you when you’re drugged out of your fucking mind. It’s taking advantage and I’m not that kind of guy.”

 

Anders breath catches and Mitchell tries not to notice. He may be a monster of sorts but he knows there are some lines he can’t cross.

 

“I’m not that drugged.” Anders voice is quiet before he speaks up again. “Honestly Mitchell, I’m not that gone. Besides, I thought about you when I was sober the other day and that has to count for something.” He hates the words the moment they leave his mouth but the urge to feel Mitchell’s lips pressed against his is too much.

 

They stand there inches apart before Mitchell lightly nods his head as if making a decision for himself. He closes the gap between them and slots their lips together. Anders mouth is warm, over-heated from the blood pumping through his veins. Anders hands immediately move up to grab onto Mitchell’s shirt and Mitchell deepens the kiss by pushing Anders back against a parked car.

 

The car alarm blares but neither one of them move. Anders pushes a leg between Mitchell’s and Mitchell grinds down against him. The lights on the car flash into the night as they continue to kiss ontop of it. Patrons of the pub start to come out to see what is causing the disturbance to find the two men tangled against one another. Mitchell finally breaks away.

 

“We should take this back to yours.”

 

“Or we could give them a show.” Anders quirks an eyebrow and Mitchell kisses him lightly before pulling him off the car.

 

* * *

 

For once in Anders life there is someone smiling at him and it doesn’t feel like a knife directly in his chest. There’s no sharp stab. Instead there’s a lighter feeling, a longing taking shape.

 

He’s never kissed gently and his body longs for it. It’s creating shadows that follow his frame, that whisper in his ear. They hang around like ghosts in a graveyard, the idea not fully put to rest.

 

He lets Mitchell kiss him softly that night, and with purpose, he lets Mitchell between his legs. For a moment he has a flashback to the man before Mitchell, his heartbeat picking up at the thought. Mitchell leans down and kisses the side of Anders mouth, his hand finding Anders and clasping their fingers together.

 

“It’s ok.” Mitchell whispers into his ear and for the first time in Anders life he believes it.

 

* * *

 

After it is over he can see Mitchell smiling in the dark and Anders rolls his eyes.

 

“What was that for?” Mitchell asks with a smile as he leans over and kisses Anders temple.

 

“It’s the afterglow, you’re all happy with it.”

 

“You should see yourself.” Mitchell kisses down Anders side, to his ribs until Anders is filled with it. Filled with something that isn’t artificial.

 

* * *

 

Anders thinks of the scientific afterglow, of expanding gamma-ray bursts, how it sweeps up surrounding material generating an afterglow and making it visible for weeks to months after.

 

He thinks that what Mitchell is, an explosion creating an afterglow.

 

* * *

 

The more he thinks of Mitchell like this, as someone with influence in his life the more he tries to quiet his mind.

 

* * *

 

When Anders lays down under the stars he sees exploding colors, galaxies colliding. He sees the milky way, it’s barred spine with dust and matter collected between the stars, hues of blues and greens. Nebulas and chemical evolution. Maybe the chemical evolution is the part that he is caught up on, how things are broken down, built back up into compounds. Maybe that’s the part that interests him in all of this, deconstruction and liquefied mathematics that can be injected into his veins.

 

“Are you ok?” Mitchell asks quietly, his body merely a few inches away from Anders. Anders looks at him to see that he’s not looking at the sky, that he isn’t looking at the explosions and orbits but instead looking at Anders with dark curious eyes.

 

“Do you not see it?” Anders asks.

 

“See what?”

 

“Nevermind, it’s probably the drugs.” A sober part of him that is clinging for life is screaming at him to stop, telling him that all of this is a bad idea.

 

When Mitchell touches him he thinks of absolute zero, he thinks of the whole world stopping. His skin is cold but when he places a kiss to Anders neck the world spins back into motion.

 

* * *

 

He needs to keep his hands busy, he needs to keep them from wanting to reach out for Mitchell. He does this by creating new formulas, by breaking down compounds and seeing which ones cause which effects on his brain.

 

* * *

 

Mitchell fights him, ask him to stop. The more that he does this the more that Anders pushes him away.

 

“I don’t even think I know what you’re really like.” Mitchell says one night in the middle of Anders flat, the table covered in white powder that Mitchell smeared to prevent Anders from snorting it.

 

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t save you.” When Mitchell says it he knows that it is true. His heart is constantly reaching, pulling at stars and looking for North. He needs Anders, a sober, more stable Anders and he’ll never be what Anders needs because of this. “You have to save yourself.”

 

“I don’t know how.” Anders is the wreckage after a fire, he’s the flames that destroyed support. He doesn’t think that he can be the firefighter as well.

 

* * *

 

“You promised me you weren’t going to hurt me!” Anders shouts at Mitchell erratically one night. The coke in his veins causing breaks in the pattern of his behavior.

 

Mitchell remembers back to that night a few months ago in the bathroom, to his quiet words as Anders was overdosing, _‘I’m not going to hurt you.’_

 

“Oh don’t fucking throw this back at me. You’re hurting yourself, and me in the process. Do you think I like watching you destroy yourself?” It’s an echo of Mike’s words and Anders immediately hates Mitchell for it.

 

“Good thing you won't be sticking around to see me follow through with it then. Just get your shit and go already, you want to leave then leave. I won't stop you.”

 

* * *

 

 Mitchell thinks it's the best course of action. This way Anders doesn’t need to know what he is and he doesn’t have to risk trying to save Anders by turning him.

 

* * *

 

Anders doesn’t turn to drugs that night, instead he falls into cold sheets that smell like Mitchell. If a tear falls he blames it on the crash from his high.

 

* * *

 

**Thirteen Years Later**

 

Anders taps a pen against his desk as he listen to Ty and Dawn talking. He tries not to throw anything at the either of them and their incessant flirting.

 

“Dawn, do you mind picking us up some lunch?” Anders cuts into the middle of their conversation, a smile on his face.

 

“Oh sure, what would you like?” She asks turning to Ty.

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“Sure she does! Why don’t you go down to that thai place? Get all three of us something?”

 

“Ok, I’ll be right back.”

 

Once Dawn is out the door Anders chucks the pen at Ty. “That was sickening to watch.”

 

“Did you ever love anyone?” Ty asks him out of frustration.

 

“No, never.” He doesn’t speak of the year he turned twenty-one and his descent into masochism. He never speaks of dark curls and sharp features. He can’t say that the reason there are so many people between his sheets is because his hands are still trying to forget. They’re still reaching for something that is no longer there.

 

* * *

 

When he thinks about Mitchell he thinks about the word reckless. Not in the way that he used to be. He thinks about olive skin. Shift of the gas pedal. A full bottom lip. Shift. Cold hands. Shift. Sharp laugh. Gas pedal. He thinks about how he could have been gentle, and that’s the thought that scares him the most. Gear shift, break. He cuts off the engine the way he cuts off himself.

 

* * *

 

Anders cell phone rings. “What is it Axl?”

 

“Can we go out tonight? Frigg search and all.”

 

“You haven’t had an idea this brilliant, in well, forever.”

 

“Do you want to go out or not?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Ok, but you’re paying.”

 

Anders figured as much.

 

* * *

 

Anders points out a few blondes here and there in the bar and Axl dismisses all of them. “You have to start somewhere bro.”

 

“I just feel like maybe she won't be a blonde?” Axl is over six feet of nervous energy and Anders sighs at the sight of him. He hopes he was never that way, all nervous hands and quick clumsy movements.

 

He pulls the bottle of beer up to his lips and immediately stops when he sees dark curls throwing darts. Even through the crowd Anders can hear the familiar loud laugh.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He says as he’s already making his way out of the booth.

 

“What is it?” Axl asks, his hands finally stilling.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Anders calls back as he makes his way across the bar.

 

He straightens out his suit jacket before he puts his hands in his pocket. “Thought you were going to stay in England, or as you put it, ‘get yourself off this hot island’.” Anders doesn’t mention the rest of the fight, the darker things.

 

The man spins around and he’s exactly how Anders remembers him. Anders takes him in, his unaged face and his still unbearable fashion sense. “Good to see you still dress like we just hit the year 2000.”

 

“Anders.” Mitchell breathes out, his lips parted as he takes in Anders sharp suit and put together appearance.

 

“Did you not expect to find me in my home town?” Anders asks annoyed.

 

“Not really, no.” And they both know what that means. That perhaps Mitchell was expecting to find a gravestone.

 

Anders taps his foot before he makes a decision. “Have a drink with me, I’ll introduce you to my brother. Then I’ll send him on his way and after if you want you can come back to mine.”

 

* * *

 

Anders tosses a few bills at Axl and tells him to catch a cab.

 

“When you say old friend…” Axl trails off.

 

“Old fuck buddy.” Anders says, loud enough for the people around to hear. Mitchell is outside having a smoke and Axl is nodding his head slowly as if it will help him understand it more.

 

“Doesn’t look like a fuck buddy. You never sleep with the same person twice.”

 

“Yeah well, we all make mistakes when we’re younger.” He doesn’t say that he had always thought Mitchell was something a little more.

 

* * *

 

Later that night Anders kisses him like he’s twenty-one all over again. He kisses him like a rush of endorphins and Anders remembers all of his highs all over again. They kiss like they’re trying to speak to the dead.

 

Mitchell pulls away, their lips close together as he rests his head against Anders. “You haven’t asked me.”

 

“Asked you what?” Anders says as he hands make their way to the buttons on Mitchell’s jeans.

 

“About why I haven’t aged.”

 

“How about this, how about we have a fuck like old times and after you can tell me all about it and I’ll tell you all about what I’ve been up to if I think your story if worth it.” Anders reaches down into Mitchell’s jeans and grabs onto his hardening cock.

 

Mitchell grins before kissing him again.

 

* * *

 

That night Anders asks for Mitchell to be rough, to use more force with his hands. MItchell obliges, not looking at this Anders as something fragile but rather something more stable, a little more reachable.

 

* * *

 

Anders laughs at the word vampire. He laughs until he almost rolls off of the bed. “I have not taken nearly enough of anything for this.”

 

* * *

 

Anders tells Mitchell about Bragi, about his brothers and vaguely about their search for Frigg.

 

“Is that why you used to do so many drugs? We’re you trying to get used to it?”

 

“Still kind of do some, not as often and not as much, but yeah sometimes I need them. It helps with whatever is going on in here.” He points to his temple flippantly and Anders past suddenly makes sense to Mitchell.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Mitchell doesn’t leave, nor the morning after. Anders doesn’t say anything about it, he doesn’t know how to say that he doesn’t want him to leave.

 

* * *

 

One night Anders has Mitchell bite him and for him it’s the best high he’s ever gotten. He falls back onto the bed with a clear mind and light limbs.

 

“Should have done that ages ago.” Anders says as he pulls Mitchell down to him and presses their lips in a kiss.

 

* * *

 

They were both built on the curve of a bite.

 

* * *

 

Even without drugs Mitchell thinks that Anders will find a way to destroy himself. That he will look for it in the form of Mitchell’s teeth, in a devil’s kiss placed on his neck. This time Mitchell doesn’t mind having a hand in the destruction, not when Anders is moaning beneath him and saying the words, “I’ve always loved you”, after Mitchell tells him he loves him one night.

 

He thinks he would be more than happy to make Anders godless.


End file.
